


Your Fake Name Is Not For Everyone

by cedarcliffe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Incest, M/M, Pre-Canon, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarcliffe/pseuds/cedarcliffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something about this place makes him wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Fake Name Is Not For Everyone

_Your fake name is not for everyone.  
It's good enough for me.  
Bet you're watching all the happy kids  
Kiss each other clean.  
_\-- Iron & Wine

 

\---

 

There's a place in the midwest where the road rolls across the ground in a cracked grey length of unpainted tarmac, asphalt splitting at the edges like the bottom of a dried-out riverbed. Faded golden clumps of scrub grass reach up through earth the bleached-out, porous color of old bones, and the world stretches out in endless flatness until it blurs together with the distant, pale line of the horizon. A dry wind dips through the slitted-open windows of cars to tug at clothes and hair, kissing across chapped lips and trailing down spines and licking away spit and sweat before either has a chance to settle on thirsty tongues or curved backs, so hot it leaves a shivering trail of goosebumps in its wake and all the while whispering, whispering the oldest secrets of the homeland. The whole landscape carries the echo of a once-alive thing, the wild ghost of a long-dead America, murmuring empty promises of blue sky possibility and dusty, lawless liberty.

Sam hears the words the land speaks. His gaze catches on something in the wide, empty spaces -- the end-of-the-world seeming, just-me-and-Dean places -- and the air runs its tongue across his neck and whistles tunelessly in his ears and then there's a deep hum beneath the impala's steady purr, so low as to perch on the edge of his hearing. It sounds like the confused syllables of a lost language, rolling off an invisible tongue in an unfamiliar cadence. Until Sam closes his eyes and listens, really listens, and then it sounds like every secret thought he's ever had.

Get out, get away. Drive and drive and drive until they're somewhere no one's ever been before, somewhere no one's ever seen. Somewhere they'll never be found again. Where it'll just be him and his brother and the car and the wind and the wide open forever.

He knows it's impossible. Worse than a pipe-dream. It's never over with them. It'll never be over. Too many people out there to save, too many things out there to hunt. Besides that, the thing that killed mom. Still out there, still a nameless unknown, impossible to even identify so really it's laughable that dad thinks he's going to fucking hunt it down and kill it. Except Sam doesn't ever dare laugh because Dean doesn't think it's funny, will  _never_  think it's funny, and Sam knows this for a fact because Dean always says the pseudonym like every word is a component in some great and terrible whole. The Thing That Killed Mom. Syllables in a name.

Something about this place makes him wish, though. Turns his thoughts longingly, restlessly wistful. He can't help wanting, dreaming, of warm nights and hot days, the two of them working toward something real, something that will leave them with more at the end than a dead monster and a still-dead mother. 

Sam doesn't think they can salt and burn the whole state, but he still imagines what it would be like to try. Filling buckets with gasoline at every trucktop and pouring it out over the road, setting it alight behind them with the teeth of a hundred different bar-stamped matchbooks, both of them throwing handfuls of salt out their windows over their shoulders. Gonna be the luckiest bastards in the world by sunup, Dean would grin. And Sam would be too happy, too light-headed and hazy with fire and fumes to correct him.

Keeps the devils at bay, Dean. That's what salt does. More of it sooner and maybe we wouldn't be in this mess.

Sam turns away from the window, from thoughts of the unattainable, and he pries Dean's fingers gently from the gearshift while a spot of phantom moisture slides from temple to cheek. He doesn't think about what he's doing. There are things they don't talk about, not even in their own heads. It's easier to just do it and feel it and know how right it is. Especially when he twists Dean's arm back and sucks a finger into his mouth, because when he does that Dean makes a sound like he might be choking and swerves a little, weaving over a line that was never painted, and Sam likes that, likes Dean white-knuckled with a thousand-yard-stare. His brother tastes like rock salt and grave dirt and engine grease and the faintly leathery, old-touch tang of steering wheel. Sam is a connoisseur of the many flavors of Dean.

He licks his way down with a soft, dry tongue until he feels the soft click of metal on his teeth and knows it's that silver ring, scarred with the edges of countless bottlecaps, and then like a switch has been flicked he sucks hard and pulls deep and secures his teeth in a sharp snap around Dean's knuckle, webbing of his fingers hard on the corners of his lips. Dean grits his teeth around Sam's name and floors it, the impala roaring beneath them as she lurches forward, climbing from eighty-five to ninety in a heartbeat. Sam swallows, and Dean groans. They both know how this is going to go, but Dean drives like a chased thing for another ten miles anyway before he lets up, and only then because Sam now has two fingers in his mouth and is wriggling his tongue in between them, slow and sinuous.

 _Fuck_ , Dean spits, and when he breaks hard enough to throw Sam up against the dash he gags, unprepared, jerking free to cough into the crook of his elbow and suddenly pissed. He wants to say Fuck it, Dean, just fuck it. You've been freaking out a lot lately about this thing we don't ever talk about, and it's starting to not be worth it.

But he doesn't, and he can't, and even if he could he would  _never_  because this...he needs this. This whatever-it-is between them. He'd like to think he doesn't, but he does, and he's slowly coming to terms with the fact that there's a part of him that's just fucked up, just broken, that somewhere along the line a couple of his wires got crossed in just exactly the right way, and now he's in love with his brother. If love is even the right word to use for this all-consuming thing that's steadily eating him away from the inside, like a terminal disease.

He shakes his head as if to clear it, Dean watching with narrowed eyes beside him. This is why they don't talk about it. Why he doesn't think about it. Because something stupid and more fucked up than usual might come spilling out of Sam's head -- or worse, his mouth -- and then they'd actually have to look at each other and  _see_.

So all he says is  _Dean_ , soft and plaintive, voice rough with coughing.

Dean's like a rattlesnake sometimes, the way he lashes out with a knife or a fist before you even really have a chance to know what's coming, and now he's got a firm grip on the hair at the back of Sam's head and Sam is sure Dean's gonna hit him. He's got that look on his face.

But his hand swings forward to hook around the back of Sam's neck, and he leans across the seat slowly, deliberately, to press his lips firmly to his forehead. His breath is a cool rush over Sam's hairline. It ghosts across his face when Dean kisses the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth, and Sam squirms, because this is kind of weird for Dean. His brother doesn't do this shit, always hits hard and fast and dirty and kisses with teeth and tongue, like he's starving for it, like he's drowning and Sam's taking up all the air in the world.

Sam is used to that, is happy with that, and in the face of this other Dean he isn't quite as sure-footed as he'd like to be.

It stops mattering when Dean's tongue pushes past his lips to map out the inside of his mouth, running over his teeth and his palate in long swipes and tight circles. Sam feels a rumble in his chest and knows that that rough, hungry sound must be him. One set of fingers curls into Dean's t-shirt, the black one with the hole in the collar Sam can't ever stop staring at, and the other set settles on the side of Dean's neck, thumb curling across his throat so he can feel every bob of his adam's apple. It's too hot in this still, humming car, the wind gone and only the warm, stale air blowing through the slatted vents to cool them. Sam's gasping into Dean's mouth, smothered, dying, wanting.

Dean pulls away. He grabs ahold of the wheel and puts his foot to the gas, the car leaping forward with a disgruntled snarl, but then Sam says his name,  _Dean_ , in that way he sometimes does, when some ugly motherfucker has ripped him from hip to collarbone and he's bleeding out on the grass and every beat of his heart pours more of him out on dry earth, and Dean stops the car. He doesn't look at Sam, just glares at the road twenty feet away with his hands hard on the wheel and his mouth a tight line.

 _Dean_ , Sam says again, and Dean yanks on the parking brake.

Dean?

Don't you ever say anything else, bitch?

Fuck you.

Dean laughs. He throws his head back and bares his teeth and laughs, and Sam winces at the sharpness of the sound in the small, enclosed space of the car. It's biting, harsh, something frighteningly close to hysterical.

You'd like that, wouldn't you?

There is a moment in which the world holds its breath. Then a breeze tickles the back of Sam's neck and the engine resumes its steady murmur, and Sam sucks a hiccup of air in between his teeth and goes very pale, shivering in a chill that can't actually be real in this withering desert heat. He knows he must look at least as stricken as he feels, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

There are things they just don't talk about.

D-Dean.

Oh,  _god_. Forget it. Dean reaches for the brake.

I.

Dean pauses, hand hovering and unnaturally steady.

I. You're. I. Sam swallows, looks at his hands, and isn't sure how to go about explaining what Dean is to him. There are words he thinks sometimes, quiet private words that he doesn't say to himself when anyone but Dean in the room. Togethersafe. Brotherneed. Bloodlove.

Sam.

Love you, Sam says, and he doesn't stutter, but he almost wishes he had.

Dean just stares at him.

You're. Home, safe.  _Everything_ , I...you taught me everything. I. Need you. With me.  _Want_  you with me. I want. Sam looks at his hands again. I want to be with  _you_.

Dean turns to look out his window, and now Sam can't see his face at all, just the stiff set of his shoulders and the hand that comes up through his hair to rest on the back of his head, elbow set in the frame of the door.

I. Want to be... _with_  you. Sam's breath shudders out of him on an unsteady sigh. I know that's...that  _I'm_. I just. I can't  _help_  it, Dean, I'm  _sorry._

Dean really  _is_  like a rattlesnake sometimes. Sam discovers this when teeth sink into his shoulder through his shirt and he finds himself yelping and scrabbling at Deans chest, at his jaw, pulling him up and off and  _Ow_ , jesus _fuck_ , Dean  _what_  the  _fuck_ \--

Oh.

Dean is kissing him. Has him crushed up against the passenger door with a leg nudging in between Sam's and his lips bruising hard on Sam's mouth. But it's different from other times, from nights where they kissed and fumbled at one another through layers of boxers and jeans, feeling the shape of each other (but nothing more because they didn't  _dare_  do more,  _couldn't_  dare), panting and rocking until they tore apart as though burned, _burning_ , Sam darting into the bathroom and Dean falling into his bed as though they  _practiced_  it. In a way, they did. This is no less rough but it has an edge of desperation Sam's never felt before, not just want but  _need_ , Dean clutching the sides of his face and crushing him close, tongue probing deep, running up against Sam's as Dean licks away the muffled sounds he makes deep in his chest and tight in his throat. Dean slides one hand down, feels between Sam's legs, and Sam lifts his hips into it with a whine.

 _Jesus_ , Dean murmurs into one of his dimples, and Sam kisses his cheek, two days of stubble prickling over his lips. Then he feels a tugging at his waistline, denim stabbing into his stomach, and he looks down and fuck, oh fuck, Dean is tumbing open the button and tugging down the fly and--

Dean.  _Dean_.

 _What_ , bitch,  _what?_  Dean's words are hot on Sam's neck, Dean's hand is sticking to the side of his face, half buried in his hair. Dean is slipping a finger beneath his waistband. Two fingers. Three. I'm  _right here,_  Sammy,  _what?_

Oh, fuck. Oh,  _fuck_ ,  _Dean_ \--

Dean pulls back, pulls the elastic down, wraps his hand around Sam. Being touched by Dean is like being hit with an electric shock, Sam rigid and trembling in his brother's hands, jaw taut but mouth open and brows pulled tight together, eyes half-lidded when they flick to Dean's. Dean's bottle greens, bright and sharp as broken glass and an inch away, their foreheads pressed together. He twists his wrist and listens to Sam's moan, watches the way his mouth drops open wider, feels the throb of his pulse and the catch of his breath.

C'mere, Sam, C'mere.

Sam grabs hold of Dean's shoulders, twists and shoves with his knees and crawls onto Dean's lap, awkward with his jeans slung low on his hips. Dean's hands are on his waist, beneath the hem of his shirt and sliding over his chest to haul it up, and Sam crosses his arms over his head and lets Dean tangle him up in his stretched and faded red tee. He feels Dean's rough palms on his hips, pressing him back into the steering wheel and his mouth, the almost-cool, almost-dry slide of his tongue between his ribs. He squirms free of his shirt, flips it into the back and doesn't see it slide to the floor, too caught up in Dean's lips moving over his side.

Then Dean looks up at him, pupils blown wide and his tongue pressing his bottom lip down over his teeth, and Sam reaches for him. Tugs him up to kiss him with a searching, teasing tongue, luring Dean into his mouth only to bite and nip and tease again. When he pulls away it's to reach for Dean's thigh, for the tight-denim bulge he sees there, and Dean is too muzzy to notice until he hears the snick of the zipper, and by then it's too late.

Dean's not the only one with rattlesnake-like tendencies. Sam has his brother in quick, sure fingers and Dean is  _quivering_  beneath him, hands fluttering over Sam like he isn't quite sure where to grab on, like he isn't sure Sam's something he can touch.

Sam pushes Dean's jeans lower and shuffles out of his own, lets them pool on the pedals cause fuck, the car is parked, and fuck, even if it isn't, it's an almost tempting thought to try doing this to Dean while going sixty on an empty road.

He slides forward, locks their hips together and snakes his arms around Dean's neck, and when he rocks his hips up against Dean's, braced hard against Dean's shoulders, Dean moans into his mouth, vibration of it moving straight through into Sam's chest. Sam feels him tense, rises with it when he bucks and rocks, and holds on tighter, presses his cheek to Dean's.

Sam.  _Sammy_.  _Fuck_.

What?  _Jerk_. I'm. Right  _here_.  _What?_

Dean growls against his shoulder, bites into the lean muscle there and rolls into Sam's stuttering hips.  _Fuck_  you, Sam.

 _Please_ , Sam murmurs, deep breathy hungry wantme  _fuckme_  right into his ear, and Dean loses it. He wraps his arms around Sam's waist and hauls him as close as he goes, chests pressed tight and hips pressed tighter, rocking up against Sam in a slick-slide of sweat and skin and god, oh  _god_ , oh fuck, fuck,  _fuck_. Sam.  _Sammy_. Sam  _Sam_   _Sammy_   _Sam._

It's Dean's voice that pushes Sam over the edge, suttering breath-hitching whimper and groan, and Dean's only a second behind him.

  
\---

  
There's a place in the midwest where the dustdevils are strong enough to knock a man over. They hiss unsettling truths and tell old stories to anyone who can listen, darting across a cracked dry stretch of road where two boys crossed new lines and never looked back.


End file.
